


Mistletoe

by QuixoticMisnomer



Series: Ineffable Advent Calendar [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Drawlight Advent Calendar, Fluff, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21644836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuixoticMisnomer/pseuds/QuixoticMisnomer
Summary: Aziraphale researches the meaning behind mistletoe. Surely this little green sprig, left behind on the desk, can give him an answer. Or if not an answer, at least a path forward.——-Aziraphale scribbles “Parasite, slow death, rapid spread” onto his notes. A pause, then below it “Long happy life together” . Looking from his notes back to his book, the quill hovers over the last line. His eyes shine for a minute, but he frowns, blinking, and shakes his head, going back to the book. The quill is set down before it can cross the last line out.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Advent Calendar [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560370
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



_ “Mistletoe is the English common name for most obligate hemiparasitic plants in the order Santalales. They are attached to their host tree or shrub by a structure called the haustorium, through which they extract water and nutrients from the host plant” _

_ -Wikipedia, 2019 _

Aziraphale paused, muttering quietly to himself as he turned away from the ancient desktop computer. He bent over a handsome wood desk and took up a fine black quill pen. He copied the quote down, paused and muttered some more, scratching at a tousled frizz of handworn blonde curls. Turning back to the computer, he tapped and clicked through another screen, squinting slightly through small reading glasses.

After a few short minutes though, he stood up again, crossed his arms and gave out a frustrated sigh, scowling at the blue-white glowing screen. Mutter mutter went the distracted angel, eyes flicking between the screen and the notes on his desk. Finally he leaned over and turned the monitor off, relieving the office of it’s harsh contrast light. The honey glow of ancient desk lamps pooled out on the floor, soaking into the persian rugs and reestablishing the cozy blurriness of the bookshop at night.

Grumbling now he collected his notes from the desk and began climbing the stairs to the bookshop’s second level. It was warmer up here, a small blessing as falling snow was blowing hard against the dark shop windows. Warm, smelling faintly of the vanilla-sweet-musty smell of old books as the molecules of lignin slowly broke down in the paper. Lignin that once helped a tree stand straight and strong, withstand storms and fight for sunlight, now retired to ease away eternity out of the weather, providing knowledge and comfort. 

The angel carefully stepped over precarious stacks of books and papers with nonchalant practice, fingers tracing spines as he delved deeper into the back stacks. His fingers were performing a ritual of touch and greeting more than needing to search. He never had to search his bookshop, he knew where every book was on every shelf. Glossy paperbacks and ancient soft leather slid under the fingertips, lambskin-covered bestiaries and gold-embossed fantasy novels, a grimoire bound with the furred hide of a black goat. 

Shiny oxfords finally stopped, and Aziraphale set down his notes on a nearby pile of books. His fingers sought out a hardback. The green leather warmed under his fingers, the book pushing forward eagerly, and laying open happily in his hands as he cracked the spine. If a book could purr, this one would have had a world class rumble going as Aziraphale smiled down at it, tracing broad, sure fingers over each page as he searched.

‘Hmmm’ went the tousled angel, brow furrowing again. At some point he sat down, curled over the book in his lap, and tucked himself between shelves. He reached out a hand and began copying down passages on his notes again as he read. 

_ European Mistletoe, (Viscum album) has long been established as an important plant to the tribes of northern and eastern Europe. From a scientific perspective it is a fascinating parasitic plant species that can slowly and surely strangle and kill large healthy trees, as well as spread rapidly via seed. However, it is much more well known for its use as a Christmas decoration, particularly related to the euro-centric Christian tradition of couples kissing under the mistletoe. This tradition in modern times has become a kind of holiday prank to be used on unsuspecting guests at holiday parties, prompting a kiss for being “caught” under the mistletoe at the same time. However, initially couples would intentionally kiss under a mistletoe sprig, believing the act promised a long happy life together. As if being “blessed” by the plant. _

Aziraphale scribbles  **“Parasite, slow death, rapid spread”** onto his notes. A pause, then below it  **“Long happy life together”** . Looking from his notes back to his book, the quill hovers over the last line. His eyes shine for a minute, but he frowns, blinking, and shakes his head, going back to the book. The quill is set down before it can cross the last line out.

_ There is a long history of decorating interiors with the evergreen foliage of various plant species during the winter solstice and related holidays. Green boughs seem to remind us of the spring to come, the summer that will be. A reminder that not everything is dead when branches are otherwise bare and food is scarce. Mistletoe of course is no exception.  _

_ Despite the host trees losing their leaves, mistletoe retains its bright green foliage and white berries long into the winter season. Pagan cultures of pre-Roman Europe, as well as many indegnous tribes of the Americas, actually saw this as evidence that the mistletoe plant was the spirit of the tree itself. To understand this, it is important to understand that for many of these cultures trees hold personhood and souls, are siblings and companions, are the same as humans or any other plant, animal, or even celestial bodies.  _

_ Mistletoe, shining green and everlasting in the midst of dark, cold winter, keys into the belief held in many of these cultures that as long as the spirit is retained anything can be renewed and made whole again. When the mistletoe, a parasitic plant remember, was dead, so too was the tree truly dead. The sight of it sprouting green from bare branches in the winter would have been an indication that brother hawthorn or oak was only at rest and not truly dead. That life would burst forth again. _

Aziraphale reached over to his notes and wrote out-  **“Everlasting spirit? Promise of renewal? Things are not as bad as they seem? Hope?”**

_ The designation of it’s importance may also come from the fact that the mistletoe was reportedly such an important medicine, particularly in the Celtic druidic tradition. Pliny the Elder, though the reader should know he was rarely sourcing from credible accounts, wrote that druids would climb trees to harvest the mistletoe with a ceremonial golden sickle. It’s been referred to as a “cure-all”, and was revered in these traditions in addition to the spiritual significance. In Celtic folklore there is a saying that if two men meet below the tree on which grows mistletoe, they must lay down their weapons and be friends for at least a day regardless of their affiliations or history. This is likely one of the origins of the modern usage of bringing couples together. _

**“Peace? Freedom from fighting? You are my friend? My medicine, my cure-all?”**

_ However, in other folklore and traditions, the mistletoe does not carry such a happy reputation. Nothing can be so simply good without having an opposite side of the coin, a darker side. Mistletoe also is a poison, toxic to humans and animals when not prepared properly. It is often linked with death, or passage to the underworld. Several christian european cultures referred to it as the cross tree. This is based on old sayings that the cross on which Jesus Christ was hung was made of mistletoe, which used to be a fine, tall tree, but afterwards was cursed to live only as a parasite with stunted branches and leaves. _

Aziraphale winced as he took up his pen, but he wouldn’t leave a single possibility unnoted. “ **Bad memories, death of a friend, Heaven’s cruelty.”** A heavy sigh at a bad memory, a time of reexamining priorities.

_ Norse cultures in particular carry mistletoe as a sign of misfortune in folklore due to the story of Baldur. His mother, Frigg, obtained oaths from every living being in creation not to harm her son, but forgot the humble mistletoe. The snake trickster god, Loki, tricked his blind brother Hodur into throwing a small mistletoe dart, which resulted in Baldur’s death. The white berries are said to be Frigg’s tears at the death of her beloved son.  _

Ah! Aziraphale’s eyes widened. Yes, the snake god Loki. So similar, this must be the reference. This must be the clue to the meaning.  **“You are the only one that can harm me, or I am the only one that can harm you? My/your only weakness? Not as safe as we think?”**

Aziraphale reached in his vest to a small inner pocket and took out a small sprig of mistletoe. He leaned his head back against the shelves, looking at it. It spun slowly between his fingers, glinting in the low light of the bookshop, dust motes in the air swirling around it.

“Oh little one, who knew you could cause an angel so much trouble. Maybe you are my weakness?” Aziraphale said wryly. An old ache creaked and throbbed in his chest. He leaned his head back further and sighed, now cupping the mistletoe against his chest as his eyes traced cobwebs on the ceiling. He tried breathing around the ache, but every inhale seemed to re-flush it with blood, throbbing again and again. Finally, he let his eyes drift closed and gave up breathing altogether. It wasn’t doing him any good. The bookshop was so quiet, a soft silence full of quiet books and their quiet lignin rot. The wind howled faintly against the walls, whining as it tried to gain entry with icy fingers and was denied.

Aziraphale thought back to earlier that morning. He had found the mistletoe sprig sitting so innocently on the cashiers desk, next to a bottle of single malt scotch. A little card with a “Be back later - C ”. Nothing unusual really. But, of course, nothing ever was that simple when it came to Crowley. Or. Maybe if Aziraphale was honest with himself, he secretly hoped it wasn’t. 

Maybe this was a fool’s errand. Chasing meaning where there was none. People no longer performed the kind of elaborate messages they’d once done. Calling on a lady, leaving a card and a flower, the flower laced with all kinds of meaning of the suitor’s intent, a comment on how he saw the lady, a description of his regard. No more flowers pressed into letters, conveying hidden desires or well wishes or threats. Even the Japanese art of ikebana, of a detailed presentation of elements conveying complex messages and feelings, was still thriving but not as commonplace as it had once been.

Maybe he was chasing hope that it had meant more, that there was some clue for him to find. Aziraphale had intellect and 6,000 years of knowledge to go with it. It would be nice if he could use it to tease free the frayed ends of the ugly knot of doubt and want wrapped around his bones, tied around his too-stupid tongue. A tongue that had been tied down with 6,000 years of practice, it must have atrophied in his mouth. Maybe this useless heart would do the same. Maybe he was being a self-sorry old sop.

The bookshop was already bedecked with thick wreaths of real cedar and fir boughs, bunches of holly, bells, and bows at the end of every isle. Fairy lights had been a final concession on his part, despite years of using candles with lovely little printed tin covers. Crowley had shown up with them a few weeks back, wordlessly shoving the colorful box of electric corded lights into his hands with a “no arguments” growl Aziraphale hadn’t heard for 200 years. The mistletoe was probably just another contribution to the decor.

Aziraphale just wanted to know how to proceed. Life after an apocalypse had this vertigo-tinged thrill to it, a disorienting kaleidoscope of bright and dark feelings. He’d thought he’d enjoy it, life free of obligation to sides, to fake enthusiasm, but without someone’s hand to steady him, he just couldn’t seem to get his legs under him.

Not any someone. Aziraphale felt a tear bead rebelliously at the corner of a closed eye, his scrunched his eyes, trying to force it back, mouth twitching back the taste of misery. He wanted a certain someone.

He felt sick with the stupid, mindless want of it. Entirely undignified the way he carried on. At least before it had been an impossible desire, a fantasy to hold on to but suppress. Now every day of freedom it wasn’t acted out added doubt and fear, pulling him back down into this mire.

The angels hands clutched the mistletoe tighter, pressing it against his chest, against his heart. Was it a medicine? A cure-all for his wounds and aches? Or was it simply another drop of poison, killing him slowly, robbing him of sense and faculty. Should he throw it away now, ignore that silly want for more? Or cling it to him, let it feed and nourish the ravenous lunatic of his desires?

Forget what humans had thought of it. What would it mean to a 6,000 year old entity?

He thought back. There had been a day in the winter of 1342. Aziraphale had been crossing what was now northern Germany, traveling to an abbey library the next valley over. He was on foot, and it had begun to snow at midday. It was the first snow of the season, and it covered the land in a fine white lacy sheet. The dark, leafless trees were stark and strange against this glowing white landscape. It was beautiful, but barren. But Aziraphale had turned off the road, and walked over to a large oak with gnarled, low slung branches. Above him, a large bunch of green sprigs and white berries erupted from a branch in a riot, glowing green and lovely. The angel remembered rubbing a few thick leaves, smiling at the defiant green thing he didn’t know the name of yet. (They’d tell him later down at the abbey when he arrived with a sprig of it tucked into his hat.) It had felt practically warm on his palm, he could sense the pulsing of life in it. In summer maybe it would be hidden under a thick carpet of oak leaves, but in this emptiness, it shone, it seemed to shine for him alone, calling to him.

No wonder the humans thought it magic, a living soul.

“There you are.”

Aziraphale’s eyes snapped open in surprise. “Cr-Crowley?”   


“Glad you haven’t forgotten my name Angel.” the demon was leaned against the bookcase next to Aziraphale, looking down at him with a teasing smile. “Someday it will happen. You’ll get so deep and lost in these books there won’t be room in that old head for anything else!” Crowley barked a laugh, and bent his head to take off his sunglasses. “Took me forever to find you in this maze you call a shop.”

His red hair was partially pulled back from his face, the hair had been growing long and unruly in the last few months. Aziraphale loved it. Loved the way it tumbled around the demon’s pale neck, the strands Crowley constantly combed out of his face as he leaned over an extra spicy lamb curry from that shop down the street they liked to visit after drinking too much late at night. In the warm evening bookshop light, it glowed, the gold tints setting off his coal ember eyes. He always seemed to glow a bit, Aziraphale thought desperately, fiery and gold against black clothing that seemed to be smoldering, a banked fire of a demon waiting to blaze into a wildfire, consuming and unstoppable...

Crowley smiled again, more of a question in his brows as Aziraphale blinked at him. His eyes looked down to the note sheet, the angel fought back a panic. Aziraphale straightened his posture and reached out as nonchalantly as possible to gather the papers up, act as if they were nothing important. Crowley knew him too well though, and snapped up the top sheet before the angel could get a grip on the stack.

“What’s all this then? Taken a real interest in mistletoe angel?” If the angel had been looking up he might have seen the nervous twitch at the corner of Crowley’s mouth under the teasing tone. Aziraphale instead had realized he still had the mistletoe sprig clutched in his free hand. It was warm in the palm. He was looking down at it, wondering if he’d crushed it. 

“Just.. wondering dear.” Aziraphale sighed, and went to put the sprig back into his vest.

Nimble, long fingers plucked it from his palm, Azirapale squeaked indignantly and reached out to snatch it back. Crowley examined the sprig, then looked down at the angel. Aziraphale looked away, embarrassed to be caught out. He clenched his empty fist, willing that lunatic panic down. 

“Wondering what angel?” Crowley tilted his head, gold eyes wide and flickering over the hunched shoulders and flushed cheeks.

Aziraphale didn’t answer. Crowley got down on a knee, bringing his face down to Aziraphale’s level. He held up the sprig between them, offering it back to the angel.

Aziraphale looked up. The tiny green mistletoe shone so brightly, a burst of life framed by the gangly blackclad body that held it out by two tapered pale fingers. It looked like it had erupted from the demon’s hand. The angel winced. Too much reading, too much thinking.

“Wondering what” Crowley repeated, softer this time.

“What it meant. When it was ah- well-” Aziraphale swallowed thickly. Crowley’s face hovered right before him. His fingers itched to trace that red lower lip, thumbs wanted to sweep over those cheekbones. To feel the warmth radiating back on his palms.

“When you left it.” Aziraphale said quietly, his voice sounded exhausted to his ears “If it meant anything in particular.” 

Crowley smiled, but his eyes looked away, down to the mistletoe. “I thought you might hang it. With the rest of your Christmas decorations.” Crowley drew his hands away, leaving the sprig hanging, spinning gently in the space between them on an invisible string of demonic will.

Aziraphale wanted to yell at him. The stupid, slick hot of misery riding around in his blood boiled into anger, a frustrated howling between his ears. He wanted to tell him to be more careful. To not go around leaving things that neurotic love-sick angels could obsess over with their useless over-filled brains. Just an innocent sprig of mistletoe? No more plants then, no flowers. He couldn’t take it.

“I hoped it’d give me an excuse if you did.” Crowley was saying, eyes watching Aziraphale, flicking back and forth over his face. Aziraphale blinked stupidly, He really wish he could do anything besides that at this point, he probably looked like a simpleton. The mistletoe kept drifting as if caught in a mild breeze, floating slowly upwards.

“An excuse?” Aziraphale whispered. Crowley nodded once, firmly. But he didn’t hold the angel’s gaze, looking down to Aziraphale’s hands where they rested on the open book in his lap instead. Aziraphale could see now the tips of Crowley’s ears were red. Brow drawing down, he looked more and saw the hand resting on the floor had balled into a fist, the knuckles white.

Aziraphale looked up at the green spring hanging above them, and down at the bowed red head in front of him. A sound, Like the roaring of the sea filled his ears.

_ Oh _ .

_ There’s the way forward. Finally. _

Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s lapels and dragged him forward. 

Their lips crashed, bruising hard, and Crowley gasped against his lips, eyes wide and body off balance. Aziraphale slid his hands up Crowley’s neck, holding his face firmly. Hungrily he pressed his lips forward again, clumsily devouring that gasp, devouring anything he could get. Crowley pressed back, his lips so soft, the taste of them easing one ache and starting another. 

Aziraphale pulled back for a second, abashed, but Crowley followed him, pressing Aziraphale’s head hard against the bookshelf. He pressed in, tongue swiping against Aziraphale’s bottom lip, diving in when the angel’s lips parted on a moan.

The roaring in Aziraphale’s ears subsided just a bit, and he realized Crowley was saying something, garbled between kisses and moans.

“Finally. Finally. Finally.”

The mistletoe floated in the air above them. 

**Author's Note:**

> An ecologist by trade, I always find how people interpret different plants interesting. Ethnobotany is probably the closest technical term for it. Sometimes as you delve into the way a plant grows, such as where it grows or when it blooms, the tales humans have devised around it gain serious depth. Mistletoe for me is one of those I've really researched and thought about in the past! So this was kind of perfect. These two seem like the type to really have gotten into the language of flowers at some point, as lots of folks have used in the fan fiction universe.
> 
> Come find me as Cranky Aster!  
> Tumblr: cranky-aster.tumblr.com  
> Instagram: cranky_aster


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